When I was laid off nearly two years ago, my awesome wife leapt to the fore and saved the family from an uncertain future. Already running her own copywriting business, she picked up another, full-time gig just two weeks after I lost mine. She remains the primary bread winner. (Thanks, beautiful!)
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Meanwhile, I became Mr Mum of two little girls now aged two and four. It's a career change that has almost killed me. Over the past 22 months I've questioned my sanity, experienced chest pains, I've punched my own head with self-pity and frustration and I feel like I've aged by at least a decade.
Which is to say I have a bit of an understanding of what zillions of women endure without complaint.
Being a mum is hands down the hardest job I've ever had.
A career in the media, by comparison, is a bludge. First off, you're usually working for some billionaire or other so you actually get paid. Second, those deadlines aren't really deadly in the sense that no one, y'know, dies if you miss one, whereas if you miss your toddler running down the driveway, well . . .
Third, there's no physical effort required beyond holding a phone, lounging in a $300 chair to surf the internet or walking from point A to point B to do an interview or have a coffee/durry/lunch/bevvies. After all that effort you get to go to the pub, where there's no shortage of people to tell you how brilliant you are.
With 27 years worth of this background you can understand why I was taken aback by the workload foisted upon me by the Henderchicks. That, and the complete lack of recognition I receive; there are no by-lines saying "School Lunch by Hendo" or "Exclusive Nappy Change by Dad".
There's not even an annual awards night run by the MAD (the Mums and Dads union). In fact there is no MAD! Except my four-year-old, when her ponytail is "not tight enough".
This is the cue for the same level of drama as a team of journos trying to scramble election coverage at 11pm with the presses revving - just with slightly more screaming.
Of course, I know better than to moan to my mates who are mums about the myriad nappy changes, the tantrums, the endless food prep, the washing, the snotty noses, the tripping on toys, the general running-my-middle-aged-arse-ragged and the dearth of awards. There's nothing I'm going through that most mums haven't dealt with countless times. I doggedly abide by the unwritten Mr Mum rule: "Thou shalt never complain."
Instead, I'm left to quietly ponder my new profession compared to my old one.
Aside from working much harder, here are some other major differences I've noticed:
Reporting: It used to mean having reliable sources, doing in-depth interviews, cross referencing, detailed research, fact-checking and watertight writing. Nowadays if I try to get to the bottom of an issue I'm met with wildly differing accounts that are impossible to untangle. "Abigail touched my kitten cup!" is countered by Abby's assertion that, "Mrn grun cargle ga nrrr - gah. GAH GAAH! SHRIIIEEEK!!"
Conference: Where I once looked forward to daily group discussions to map out the content of whatever newspaper or magazine I was working for, holding conference to plan the day with the grrrls is far less stimulating. They don't respect my opinion: if I say the beach, they'll say "the paaaaark!" If I say the park, they'll say "the beeeeeach!" Come to think of it, it's a lot like a news conference.
Photo shoots: Where I once worked alongside the best in the biz - including one of the Walkley Award-winning snappers on this newspaper - I'm now the one behind the lens. Sadly, my subjects are the worst in the biz. The youngest pretty much flops face down and screams whenever I point a camera (OK, it's a phone) in her direction. The older one pulls a weird, waxy, horror-movie smile - in every single photo.
Problem solving: At first I responded to the girls' wailing and shrieking the same way I dealt with angry editors, that is, I listened to their complaint and then suggested ways in which we could address the problem at hand. This resulted in me being smeared with faeces on one occasion and bitten on another (no, not by the editors, by the kids).
Boozy lunch/dinner with contacts: One of the few aspects that have remained the same. Though there's no alcohol involved, drinks still get spilled, food gets slopped down the front of shirts and cutlery and crockery end up on the floor.
It's not all bad news, though.
While my boss/wife isn't a billionaire, she's far kinder, more understanding and easier on the eye than your average media tsar. Although I sometimes miss my erstwhile job of keeping the community informed, there can be no job more important and rewarding than informing the growth and progress of little lives. I wouldn't change it. Much.
■P.S. Dear editor, if you need a competent and experienced news editor, chief of staff or even just a more regular columnist who works from home, the news desk has my email address.